A genuine look of live-boy astonishment overspread his countenance. “A girl!” he ejaculated. “But there ar’n’t any about—unless you mean Pigtails.”
Pigtails was Beatrice Sneard, and I felt that an insult was being leveled at me.
“If you say that again, I’ll punch your head.”
“Oh, so it is Pigtails.” He rose to his feet lazily and began to take off his jacket. “Come on and punch it.”
But a fight wasn’t at all what I wanted. So I walked straight up to him with my hands held down.
“Silly ass, how could it be Pigtails? Do I look that sort? It’s another girl. I came to you ’cause you’re in love, and you’ll understand. I’ve been a beast to you—won’t you be friends?”
I held out my hand and he took it with surly defiance. I was too eager for sympathy, however, to be discouraged.
“She’s called Fiesole,” I said. “Isn’t that beautiful?”
“Ruthita’s better.”
“She’s got gold hair with just a little—a little red in it.”